Growing Up Laughing_ My Story and the Story of Funny - Marlo Thomas [74]
A lady never crosses her legs, except at the ankles, and never sits with her back against the chair—which could encourage slumping.
And a real lady is able to open her handbag and reach inside and get anything she needs—without looking.
She even taught me how to blow my nose. We’d go to a little tearoom to have cocoa, and when it was cold outside, our noses would be running. So we’d slip up a side street, go into an empty doorway and blow our noses. Then, self-assured, we’d go into the tearoom and, sure enough, we’d see some poor, sniffling woman at the counter, struggling with the paper napkin holder. And, of course, Mrs. Rupert would give me a little elbow to make sure I noticed that the woman was not composed.
I just adored her. She was so wonderful and pixilated.
“Sometimes I feel like a figment of my own imagination.”
By the time I was twelve, I was very big on magic. After I paid off the debt to my mother, I’d go down to Abbott’s Magic Shop and buy tricks—like the rope that you cut into two, then magically restore. Or the trick where you raise an egg under a silk. I wasn’t very good at sleight of hand, but it was fun.
Until now, I’d kept my showbiz life totally separate from my friendship with Mrs. Rupert. But one night I couldn’t resist inviting her to see my magic act.
She flew off the handle.
“Magic act!” she gasped. “Don’t tell me you’ve been spending your time and money on magic tricks! Don’t you realize that it’s all just an illusion?”
Then she said something that sounds apocryphal, and I’ve never forgotten it:
“If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up in show business!”
I was incensed. I felt like my dignity was eroded. “I’m not coming back!” I shouted. And I left.
Mrs. Rupert tried to win me back after that. One day, my brother and I were out in the backyard, and she peeped through one of her windows and said, “If you come tonight, I’ll show you something very interesting.” I was still pissed off, but I was curious.
So my brother and I went to her apartment later that evening. She took us into her dining room, which was tiny and had a table draped in a laced tablecloth, and a chandelier that was dark and gloomy, with a big silk hanging over it. She brought out a great big chest wrapped in chamois. After removing the fabric, she opened the box to reveal another box inside. Then she took out the smaller box.
“You must never tell anyone about this,” she warned my brother and me. Then she opened the box.
By now, my brother and I were beginning to think we were about to see a dead baby’s foot or something equally eerie. But in the box was a dagger and sheath, with something on it that could have been construed as blood. Or rust.
“This,” she said, “is the dagger that killed Mussolini.”
My brother and I were so disappointed. A dagger that killed Mussolini was nothing compared to a dead baby’s foot.
That was my last encounter with her, and my family eventually moved to a new neighborhood. But one day after school I stopped by the old building and wandered over to Mrs. Rupert’s apartment.
The plants were still in the window, and the venetian blinds were still drawn. I banged on her door, but no one answered. So I slid my school bus card under the door and went away.
I never saw Mrs. Rupert again. I wonder if she ever found out that her worst fear came true—that I wound up in show business. She’d probably be furious.
“Delusions of grandeur make me feel a lot better about myself.”
Yes, they certainly do.
GUY WALKS INTO A BAR . . .
A drunk goes into a bar, stumbles over a few people, sits down and asks for a whiskey. The bartender tosses him out because he’s too drunk. A few minutes later, the drunk comes back into the bar, knocks over a stool, sits down at the bar and again asks for a whiskey. Again, the bartender tosses him out. A few minutes go by and the drunk comes back, stumbles to the bar, sits down and asks for a whiskey. The bartender picks him up by the scruff of his neck